


shapes

by Nerlune



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Friendship, Grog has feelings, nobody means him any real harm they just dont understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerlune/pseuds/Nerlune
Summary: The alphabet is just a series of shapes, isn't it? Grog struggles with something the group regularly teases him about and has to take a walk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Character sheet stats are cool and all, but everyone can learn something if they put their mind to it. I feel for Grog, and I love friendships, so...

He can hear their laughter as he walks away. A tight clenching wraps around his throat and a familiar burn starts to burn up his chest but he shakes his head and grits his teeth.

It’s not like he doesn’t understand that he’s not the smartest person in their group. Contrary to popular belief, he is pretty aware of how people view him. He’s always been able to ignore the slight shame that comes from always misunderstanding jokes and complex statements from people. The shame always tempered by his ability to fight— and fight well. 

It’s the jokes about his inability to read that get him every time. Whenever he tells people he’s good at shapes and remembering things, he means it. It’s not like he has the real ability to lie, anyways. Most of the time he just rolls with the jokes and teases that get aimed at him because it’s easier to follow the conversation than it is to change it and stand up for himself using anything besides his fists and weapons. 

Growing up with his herd was a blessing and a curse. He’s strong— he can rip apart enemies with his bare hands! But the nomadic and violent upbringing never led to any time for him to learn how to read. 

It’s shameful.

Underneath his large feet the pebbles and dirt grind and crush. He watches as little bugs jump away from his feet and others are too slow to move out of his stride. There’s a red bug sitting in his way, seemingly not noticing the lurking giant incoming. Pausing, he pulls his foot back and crouches close to the ground. The red bug is tiny, smaller than the nail on his pinky by a lot. 

It’s weakly jumping around, hopping and walking. He wonders how the bug must see him. How big must he seem to the little thing on the ground? A rush of pride runs through his bones because, yeah, he’s big! It quickly fades when he continues to watch the small thing, it’s not hurting him and as he reaches a finger down to it he feels it tickle as it walks on him. 

He sits there and watches as the bug just explores his finger, then his hand and it’s fascinating. 

Quick to attack and scream— never stopping to just observe. It’s frustrating!

Huffing with anger, he throws the red bug onto the ground and stomps on it before continuing his walk. It’s frustrating to be aware of how much he could be saying and explaining his emotions and not having the words, the knowledge, to really tell people what’s happening. 

Bitterness fills his chest and he hates himself for a second. For only being good at destroying and killing. Only being able to use his strength to take apart what others have spent so long putting together. He hates himself for finding it so easy to snuff out the life of innocent things— his mind flashes back to the red bug that had trusted him to keep it off the ground. He swallows harshly, the bitterness threatening to come up his throat. 

With swift movements, he finds the training ground. Escaping the path where he was leaving a trail of tiny little bodies in his footsteps. 

Once there he finds the training dummies and starts to whale in on them with his fists and legs. His muscles burn and the sweat drops continually fall down his body and splatter to the ground. Blood is dripping from his knuckles and he’s destroyed 5 dummies before he realizes that the people on the training ground have taken to giving him looks every few seconds. 

The looks in their eyes are afraid. He’s not doing anything to them and they’re still afraid of him! He wants to scream, wants to rage! But he looks at one of the training recruits and it’s a young looking woman. She’s staring at him in awe, her mouth wide and excited. She’s looking at him as if he’s something good and in her eyes he sees the same eyes he’s stared into many times before dealing killing blows. 

With a twisting, crushing, wrapping around his heart he growls then turns away to just— get away. He furiously stalks away, vision becoming blurry and mouth twisted harshly down. Time blurs and he doesn’t come back until—

“Grog!” The charming voice of his buddy, Scanlan interrupt his thoughts and he turns towards the sound with an angry snap. “Buddy?”

He growls.

“Hey, are you ok, man?” And he’s looking in Scanlan’s eyes now, they’re wide. But they’re filled with fear or awe, just worry. That moment of connection with Scanlan makes the bitterness overflow from his throat and he screams. Wordless shouts of pain escape and he’s only barely aware that he’s fallen to his knees.

Even on his knees he’s taller than Scanlan. 

“Why aren’t you scared?” His voice deep and guttural as always.

“I’m not scared of you, Grog.” Scan scoffs, “I could so take you.” The usual humor not dissipating in this moment of watching his friend fall apart.

“All I do is kill.” He looks at his hands then at Scanlan, “All I’m good at is killing.”

“Sure, Grog. You’re very good at killing, why is that a bad thing?” Confusion, surprise.

“I want to be good at other things. But the words never… work.” He growls and punches the ground, “I understand a lot, the words just don’t work!” Even now he can barely form the words that his body and mind know to represent what he’s feeling. 

Scanlan’s silent, probably for one of the first times since he’s met him, so he continues to talk.

“I can’t even read.” He knows they all are aware of this, but admitting it out loud brings harsh shame shuddering through his chest. “I can’t even fucking read, Scanlan.”

“I can teach you, buddy.” Scanlan sounds off, thrown by the unexpected vulnerability of his friend but also upset. “I didn’t think you felt this way…” the gnome trails off as if he realizes that he had never actually asked Grog before. 

He looks at Scanlan and his usual smile is on his face although there is a hint of shadow in his eyes.

He feels like a beast, like a wild animal thrashing in the grips of a trap. He thinks about Pike’s soft face, her words and her writing. Writing to Pike would be amazing whenever they’re separated. 

“Will it make me less of a monster?” Because remembering the fearful faces of the people he had protected in the past causes his stomach to turn. He’s not like Kevdak is he? Constantly feared by the people he considered a family?

“You’ve never been a monster, Grog. I’m sorry that we’ve led you to think that’s all you are.” Scanlan walks closer to him and settles a tiny hand on his shoulder. 

“Grog. If you want it, I’ll teach you how to read. I’ll try to give you the words to express yourself.” The gnomes voice reaches his ears and he wants so bad to believe them.

“What if I can’t learn?” His own voice is fearful, vulnerable in a way it wasn’t even when facing Kevdak. 

“Please. I am Scanlan Shorthalt, there isn’t anything I can do.” Scanlan says with confidence.

“I don’t want to be a monster.” He stands to his feet and lifts Scanlan to his shoulders like normal.

“You aren’t.” The gnome on his shoulder sounds firm, steady. “Plus, when I get you reading poetry you’ll have all the fine ladies in your bed. That sound good?”

He grunts in assent, the words stuck in his throat, the effort of the past day sealing up his mouth.

“Let’s go to the library. We can start now.” And with Scanlan creating minor illusions to depict the alphabet, they continued to the castle. 

He still feels that shame and fear bubbling through his stomach but Scanlan’s word’s still linger in his head. They bolster him like the gnomes songs do in battle and with sharp eyes he takes in the lessons like he would the scene of a battle.

And surprising everyone, including himself, he flourishes.


End file.
